Borrowing Trouble: Some Kind of Magic
by A.Lion.Heart
Summary: My grandmother always told me not to go borrowing trouble, but this time trouble borrowed me and his name just happens to be Alistair. Book I of Borrowing Trouble, an original AU Alistair/F!OC story that will span our universe, his, and the events of Origins, Awakening and II. Rated M for dark content, language, adult themes.
1. Short Haired Tornado: Prologue

**A/N: Welcome to the prologue of Borrowing Trouble. This story is planned to be something of an anthology, so this is only the first book of many. With luck, this story will continue to be written and read for many, many weeks and months to come. It's an idea that struck me when I was flying back home from Miami and looking out the window. The view from an airplane is always marvelous. **

_**The music that partly inspired this story and heavily influenced this prologue is "The Greener Grass" by Fair to Midland. **_

**I do not own Dragon Age or any of its characters, locations or events. I only own the characters I have created.**

* * *

_(I'm scared)  
11 hours till the electric arcs_

_(I'm scared)_  
_Send scorches through the sky_

_(I'm scared)_  
_Then the whole earth opens wide_

* * *

I'm too anti-social for my own good, or at least, that's what everyone keeps telling me. Not that I'm some mouth breathing weirdo who's too paranoid to leave their own house, I have plenty of friends. I go out, and I do things. I just tend to...avoid other people's company if I can manage it. I don't know why. It's not that I don't like people, I just always find myself drifting off halfway through conversations, wishing in my head that they'd shut up and go away. Did I say I have plenty of friends? Well, I have a couple anyway. Enough to count. You get the point.

My name is Sarah Blake, and in danger of sounding suspiciously like the Fresh Prince, this really is the story of how my life got turned upside down.

Maybe I should start at the beginning, with the basics, like you're supposed to. My name is Sarah Blake and I'm twenty-three years old. I'm short, about average shaped, with too-long hair that's exactly the shade that comes to mind when you think of the word 'brown'. I wear glasses. I'm anti-social, but we went over that already. That stuff doesn't really matter anyway.

What does matter is...what the hell am I supposed to do?

I skipped ahead too far already, let's take a step backwards.

* * *

The clouds hanging low overhead are angry and ready to burst, which would be just my luck. Sometimes, I really think I should just break down and learn how to drive. It'd be more convenient, but the reality is that I'm just not motivated to go through the hassle when everything is within walking distance anyway. The benefit of living in a small town, I guess. The only benefit.

The streets are vacant except for the occasional person on their way home from work, their tires crunching the red and gold leaves that are already falling from the trees despite it only being late August.

The walk home from work is always a short one, but the threat of rain makes it seem impossibly long as I wait anxiously for the crack of thunder and the sound of the torrential downpours that this part of the country is famous for. Oh, Northern America, remind me why I moved here again?

Music snakes from my phone, through the headset and into my ears, drowning out my footsteps that always, without fail, shift to match the tempo of whatever I'm listening to. The music doesn't matter, the words and the notes and the lyrics are secondary. The tempos, the beat, the heart of the songs are why I listen. I live to count the beats and half rests that music is composed of.

I guess you could say I'm slightly OCD. I count things. I put my laundry away in parcels of ten, and then I have to go do something else before I start another set. It's mostly just little things like that, and I can break my rituals without freaking out or feeling sick, it's just that I do them without realizing it. I don't really remember when that started.

Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance, not so much heard as felt in the cavity of my chest and my pace quickens with my desire to stay comfortable and dry. I'd closed up shop early today in anticipation of the weather, though the drop off recently in my business may have had something to do with that as well. I own a flower shop. That's right, I'm a florist. For some reason, everyone always laughs when I tell them that. My grandmother calls it _quaint. _I don't get it. I like flowers. I sell flowers for a living. It seems like a win-win situation to me.

The gentle slope of my roof comes into view as I round the corner onto my block, third house on the left, the one with the ridiculous garden and even more ridiculous garden gnomes. I feel my lips curve into a smile at the sight of them, and I fish my jingly keys from my purse to let myself inside.

It's darker than normal, my large windows cut off from their usual sunshine by the thick clouds promising rain and I flick on a lamp as I pass by, dropping my purse and work bag wherever, shedding my clothes until I can stretch comfortably in my underwear and socks in the solitude of my bedroom. My cat blinks balefully at me from where he sits curled in my computer chair, meowing with reproach from beneath the shirt I toss carelessly on top of him.

"Afternoon, Tom," I grouse, swiping up a tank top and loose yoga pants from the floor and shimmying into them. Yeah, my cat's name is Tom, but it's not what you think. He's not Tom, as in Tom Cat, he's Tom, as in Tom Hanks. I've got my on-again off-again boyfriend to thank for that one.

Thunder shakes my windows and I nearly jump out of my socks, clutching my chest as though it would slow the hammering of my surprised heart. Inside my cozy little house, I've forgotten about the storm that is now raging full force outside. Peeking out the window, it looks like I've made it inside just in time. My poor flowers, I hadn't gotten the chance to cover them. Hopefully, by the time the storm blows itself out, they won't be too battered or drowned. They've already had such a rough start from our unusually long winter.

Lightning spears the sky and chasing after it is another peal of thunder that rattles my windows in their panes. From beneath my shirt, Tom peeps his acknowledgement of the storm and goes back to sleep, his orange flicking tail the only part of him that's visible.

I shut off the bedroom light, leaving the crotchety Tom to his afternoon nap and pad my way into the kitchen. I don't bother turning on any lights, the dull glow of the ever constant light above my stove is more than enough to illuminate me on my quest. Cabinets rattle, silverware jangles in drawers and the suction of my refrigerator door punctuates my daily ritual of afternoon cereal and nearly frozen milk. Bowl in hand, I amble out to my living room and draw the curtains open all the way before settling down on my couch. With my legs tucked snugly beneath me, I watch the storm unfold.

It's raging furiously, and I'm a little bit surprised. We get bad storms, but nothing like this, not that I've seen since I moved here. The sky has gone from slate grey to charcoal black and the clouds are boiling. Rain pelts everything in bullet fast sheets and I wonder just what happened to make the sky so pissed off. Lightning is arcing everywhere, and I'm glad that I made it inside when I did, it looks dangerous. Flashing purple and blue bolts strike the ground just out of sight, their jagged appearances lighting up the sky brilliantly before allowing it fade back into the dark.

Something about this storm is seriously freaking me out, and I can't put my finger on what it is or why. It just leaves me feeling uncomfortable. The air is charged and ionized, that same feeling you get when you're scared to touch a doorknob or a shopping cart because you know it's gonna zap you with static electricity. There's this heavy feeling in my stomach that I can't shake and the back of neck prickles like someone is watching me, but that's not possible. I live alone (except for Tom) and Jack gave me his key back days ago.

I chalk it up to nerves, anxiety over my recent once-again broken off relationship and take a contemplative bite of my crunchy cereal. I realize that I'm chewing in time with the pace of my thoughts and concentrate specifically on not doing it, which doesn't work because then I start chewing to the pace of my _stop it_ mantra. Lightning flashes again and I feel the hair on my arm stand on end. Ridiculously, all I can think of is the crew from that silly ghost show. _"Dude, check out the hair on my arm, there's totally a presence around here..."_and I immediately feel dumb for making that connection. It's just the charge in the air from the lightning that's making me feel weird; changes in barometric pressure can make you feel creeped out. It's just a northern storm.

My spoon is halfway to my mouth, heaping full of delicious cereal when I feel it. The ground shakes just a little bit, like it does when the trains are running by except there are no trains running today and the shaking isn't stopping. It's getting worse, knocking the cereal from my spoon and the milk from my bowl, sloshing it over the ceramic side and onto the polished wood of my living room table. From my bedroom, I hear Tom's grumpy noise of protest, and I can hear my own noise of confusion ringing in my ears. This part of the country doesn't get earthquakes, but we do get tornadoes, and that's the first thought on my mind. My poor little garden, no way will it survive a cyclone.

The shaking is getting stronger and now there's this noise like a train is barreling down, heading straight for my house and I panic when I realize that I don't have a basement and it's too late for me to leave the house and go find shelter. My mind clicks rapid fire through all of the safety drills I learned in school as a kid and I remember that the bathtub, for some reason, is the safest place in the house if you're going to sit out a tornado.

My bowl of cereal is forgotten, along with the growing puddle of cold milk that will no doubt leave a stain on my table, and I tear through the house back to my bedroom and scoop up my freaked out cat. My feet threaten to slide out from beneath me when my socks offer no traction on the hardwood surface and I book it as fast as I can anyway. I turn the corner into my bathroom and with a flying leap, I land unceremoniously and ungraciously in the bathtub, hoping that I'm remembering things right and I'm not about to die right next to my toilet.

There's a tearing noise, accompanied by this awful suction sound and I'm absolutely sure that the roof of my house is about to disappear when it suddenly stops and my ears pop painfully with the abrupt change in air pressure. I've heard stories about the eye of the storm, how it's quietest there while the storm is raging all around and I'm sure that's what's happening now. Not to mention I've seen enough scary movies to know that the bitches that go check on everything immediately after the noise stops are always the ones that die. No way am I dying in this monster movie, bucko.

Tom is shaking in my arms, giving me that pitiful yowl he's perfected on trips to the vet and I shake him a tiny bit just to hush him. He rewards me with the scolding feel of his claws in my arm and I lean my head on the cool edge of my tub, hoping that the worst is over. I'm over thinking everything, picturing the damage I know will be done to my garden, my fence, and probably my roof.

The feeling in my stomach is heavier than before as I contemplate how much it might cost for all the repairs. My shop isn't exactly making me a millionaire, and I'm wondering if maybe I can convince Jack to fix it.

Seconds turn into minutes while it stays silent, and with Tom's claws digging into my skin I decide I have no choice but to crawl out of the bathtub and go see for myself.

My feet are dragging and I know it, I'm so bad at confronting things. I get weird and nervous just checking my bank statement online. I'm definitely a glass half empty kind of girl. Expect the worst, because that's usually what you end up with anyway.

I'm surprised when I leave the bathroom, because there's no damage that I can see. Looking out my windows, it looks like my porch chairs got blown over but that's it. It doesn't make any sense, I heard and felt the tornado, there should be damage, should be some sign of the storm but there isn't. The only indication that anything even happened is the still-dark sky and the claw marks that are lightly bleeding on my forearm.

My breath fogs up the glass window of my back door as I press my face against it, peering into my yard and surveying for some kind of evidence that I'm not going crazy, but what I see in no way convinces me. It can't be right. I'm seeing things because I've suddenly and inexplicably lost my mind.

There's a man lying face down in the middle of my vegetable patch, near my back fence which looks like it's been damaged by something heavy, and that's not even the impossible part.

My back door swings open and I walk barefoot across my porch to lean against the railing. The bottom of my socks are instantly soaked but that drops pretty far down to the bottom of my list when I get a really good look at the stranger who's crushing my peas.

He's wearing armor, like a knight or something from the dark ages, but it's scratched and bent and even from here I can tell parts have been torn away and it's kind of bloody. I wonder if he designed it like that on purpose, like maybe he's a performer or something. That seems the most likely scenario. How many drunk or stoned actors wind up passed out in other people's yards? I can think of at least two off of the top of my head. I consider myself lucky that he didn't climb in my bedroom window.

Still, he's unconscious, and he's crushing my peas so I clearly can't leave him where he's at. I could call the police, but I decide against it - at least for right now. I can always call them if it turns out he's some kind of nutso rapist.

I hop down the three steps that lead from my porch to my thirsty grass that's soaking up the water from the rain and creep cautiously over to where he's sprawled out. It takes me a while, I swear I'm only moving an inch a minute but my heart is hammering in my chest and I'm nervous.

There's a sword lying a few feet from him in the grass, and I don't see it until I'm passing it, because I'm not paying attention to anything but this guy and I'm trying to think of what I'm even going to do when I reach him and suddenly I'm there next to him. I'm kneeling, pushing and struggling to turn him on his side so I can roll him onto his back and it's stupid how heavy he is. I have to brace my feet in the slick grass and push from my hips to even get him to move, and since he's dead weight I have to keep pushing or he'll roll right back onto his face.

He rolls, finally, and I wince. This close, I can see the brutal tears in his armor and he's _bleeding _which doesn't make any sense since he's bleeding in places he shouldn't be from such a short fall over my fence. His face is bruised, his lip split and his expression is screwed up horribly from whatever nightmare he's obviously having and I can't help but feel sorry for him, crushed peas and all. He just looks so...nice. He's cute, and I have to take a moment to laugh at myself for thinking such a stupid thing when he's so messed up.

"Alright, Sir Lancelot," I murmur, poking and prodding at the bends and breaks in his armor, carefully avoiding any spots that might get blood on me because I still don't know this guy, and you never know what diseases people might have. Still, I can't just leave him out here. The storm looks like it's gathering strength for a second go around and I might be a crummy person but I'd be **really **crummy person if I just left him out in the rain to get battered by whatever lawn ornaments the wind decides to throw around.

There's no way I'll be able to lift him, and so I settle for trying to wake him up instead. As carefully as I can, I go for shaking his shoulders first, which turns out to be a bust because he's so heavy I can barely do that. This is one built dude. His shoulders are broad and he's at least six feet and some change, which sucks for me if I can't get him to wake up. I can just picture my snoopy neighbors spying at me over the fence, watching me drag an unconscious and obviously beaten man into my house by his feet. That would go over well with the neighborhood watch.

Since shaking his shoulders doesn't work, I move on to patting his face, which earns me a groan but nothing more and so I move on to a different technique. "C'mon, Sir Lancelot, wake up or you're gonna get tossed around more than Dorothy." I pinch his cheeks and thump his forehead, feeling a little guilty since he's so wrecked, but he does start to come around.

I lean back immediately, resting my weight on the balls of my feet and watch like a hawk as a pair of hazel eyes blink open blearily. He doesn't see me right away, but when he does, he sits up and immediately starts scrambling around for his sword. "Woah!" he cries out, his eyes wide with distrust. "Demon!" His voice is rich and low, a rumbling baritone in an English accent so delicious it would curl my toes if he wasn't currently trying to find his sword so he could chop off my head. "Where are they? Where are my friends?"

_Demon? _I have no idea what he's talking about, but he's obviously confused. "Hey!" I cry out reproachfully, rising to my feet as he rises to his, sword firmly in hand. I was right, he's six and some change, and boy is it ever a lot of change. He's towering over me, but I'm too angry all of a sudden to be intimidated. I was trying to _help _him for crying out loud. "You hang on a minute," I snap, marching forward and poking him hard in the chest, which accomplishes nothing but bending my finger since he's so padded in armor. "You do not get to be all high and mighty with me, Sir Lancelot, nooooo _way. _You're in **my** back yard, you broke **my **fence and **you are still crushing my peas.**"

My arms fold across my chest and I realize I'm shivering a little bit, but I can't tell if it's from the cold or from the sheer nerve of this guy. He might be cute, but he's pissing me off. I glare pointedly down at my poor peas and he at least has the decency to look sheepish about the fact that he's ruined part of my vegetable patch. My eyes are narrowed and my hip is cocked out to one side in what my mom calls my battle stance, and if the blush creeping up his neck is any indication, it's working. An awkward moment of quiet passes between us and then his eyes are narrowing right back at me distrustfully. He looks more silly than anything else, the way he's squinting one eye at me like I'm going to turn him into a toad or something. "Who are you?" he drawls out suspiciously. "And where are my friends?"

A drop of rain splatters on my bare shoulder and I flick it off. "I'm going inside," I announce, not happy with how wet my socks and the hem of my yoga pants are. "If you want to, you can come in and dry off. Just don't kill me or rape me or something dumb like that."

He sputters, gaping at me like a fish which might be a good thing considering he's about to get drowned if the clouds are any indication. I can hear the rain coming and I book it the rest of the way inside without checking to see if he's following me til I'm on my porch.

"If you get wet," I call out to him, rolling up the legs of my pants so that my ankles don't feel so gross, "will you rust like the tin man?"

His expression of deepening confusion makes me chuckle and I retreat backwards into the beckoning warmth of my house while the clouds finally unleash themselves for round two. Within seconds, his honey blonde hair is plastered to his face and he's still not moving. Of _course _he would be an idiot, that's just the way my luck runs. I watch him for a while, nose and hands pressed against the glass of a window. I expect him to do something, but he doesn't and now I just feel bad for being mean. The rain isn't letting up and I'm not so much of a bitch that I'll just let him freeze. He looks so lost, and for some reason he looks sad, which gets under my skin. I've never been good at dealing with people being upset. The way his shoulders are slumped makes me sigh. My patio door slides open and I slip back into the unforgiving weather, this time equipped with an umbrella and a fluffy towel.

"Here." I offer him the towel, straining on my toes to get the umbrella over his head as well as my own. He's so tall that I can only just barely manage it. "Come inside, already. I'm sure I can help you find your friends. You can use my phone to call them."

He doesn't understand, I can tell by the flicker in his eyes and the crease in his brow but he takes the towel and dries his face. "Come inside," I order again, uncomfortable with his confusion. I'm really hoping that he didn't give himself a concussion falling over my fence. "C'mon. The weather is only going to get worse and I would really prefer if you didn't keel over in my back yard. I'm sure we're already giving my neighbors something to talk about."

I turn and the umbrella turns with me, but this time at least he follows me with a defeated huff of breath. He takes the umbrella without a word, which my cramping arm is thankful for, and holds it over both of us until we're safely on my patio where I take it back and shake it out. The umbrella is leaning against my patio table and I beckon for him to follow me inside. "My phone is in the kitchen, Sir Lancelot. Dry off and you can use it to call your friends to come pick you up."

"Alistair," he grumbles at me, his heavy plated boots leaving puddles on my hard wood floors when he follows me inside. I turn in time to see him frowning down at me, that crease still furrowing his brow. "My name is Alistair."


	2. A Loophole in Limbo: Chapter 1

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who favorited/followed/reviewed and PMed me! For you, this chapter makes an appearance much sooner than I was planning. You are appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or any of it's characters and locations. I only own what I create.**

* * *

_Were you shaking in your boots?  
__Did it scare you half to death?_

_When you saw the falling arrows  
__Did you stop dead in your tracks?_

_Or join the whole stampede,  
__Just to keep from spilling over?_

* * *

"Sarah," I volunteer, offering him my name even though he's being rude and hasn't asked me. He barely grunts and I struggle not to roll my eyes, disappearing down the hallway that leads to my bathroom. "Hey!" he protests to my retreating back. "Where are you going?" I don't answer, deciding that if _he _gets to be rude, then _I _get to be rude back. Two can play that game.

The armful of towels I return with hit him square in the face and I chuckle at my petty victory. He looks surprised, and more than a just little bit ridiculous, but they're starting to slide and they'll end up on the muddy floor if he doesn't catch them. He moves too quickly for his bent armor and his injuries and I catch sight of his wince, feeling like a jackass for actually forgetting that he's injured. "What happened to you?" I question, cautiously trying to break the grumpy silence that's developed between us. "What exactly were you doing in my backyard?"

He's trying to dry himself off, but he's still leaking. No doubt there's water inside his armor that's making him uncomfortable and toweling off the outside just isn't going to cut it. "You tell me," he retorts defensively and I raise my eyebrows at his tone. He scoffs at my disbelieving look and I sneer back at him, reminded of why I don't necessarily enjoy the company of strangers, no matter how good looking they are.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I shoot back, flopping down onto my couch and propping my feet up on the table. It's a mistake I recognize instantly, when my heel lands in a puddle of sticky milk. "Aw, gross." I move my feet to the floor and try to retain some of my dignity, despite the milk, but I get the feeling I'm failing miserably. It's very hard to take the high road when you have flavored milk on your feet and a stupid, if not handsome, knight looming at you from across the room. "I'm not a demon," I grumble petulantly, staunchly avoiding his suspicious stare by keeping my eyes on the window.

Alistair shakes his head, not moving from the doorway. He's holding my towels and still holding his sword like he can't quite decide if he's going to run me through or dry his hair. "If you're not a demon, you're a witch then. Did Morrigan put you up to this? I bet she did. Maker, she's such a bitch. " He looks so proud of himself, I can see it from the corner of my eye and it's suddenly a lot harder to try and ignore him. His chest is so puffed out and he looks so pleased that I give him a few moments to revel in his conclusion before deflating him.

"Who?"

He wilts, though he's back to giving me that one eyed squinty look he was shooting my way outside. I bite back a laugh, which only serves to offend him and his apparently delicate ego. "What part of this situation is funny to you?!" he explodes, waving my towels at me furiously. "You're some sneaky witch like Morrigan. No doubt you're going to turn into some spider and try to eat me now that you've lured me into your parlor."

This time, I don't bother hiding my laughter but I do try to get it under control when I see the thin press of his lips. He's not nearly as amused as I am. "Really?" I ask, struggling to breathe normally. "_I've lured you into my parlor_? Do you realize how dumb that sounds?"

His ears turn red and I think he does realize just how lame that sounds.

"Dumb or not, you're still some sort of...witch...person!" He defends helplessly. His neck is turning as red as his ears and he's carefully avoiding actually looking at me. "...Right? I mean, right! You're definitely a witch and you've summoned me here for some nefarious purpose!"

I almost laugh again, but the expression on his face is so deadly determined that I stop and turn on the couch so I can look over at him. "Wait, you're really being serious, aren't you?" Maybe he hit his head harder than I thought.

He gives me an incredulous look like he can't believe I asked such a dumb question. "No, I'm not serious. The fact that you brought me here which means I've left Elissa and Wynne and Leliana in the Deep Roads _alone_ is just one big joke! Ha ha! Surprise! I sure fooled you!"

I climb from the couch and approach him tentatively, realizing a little late that he's actually really upset. "Alistair, look, sorry I didn't mean to...tease you." I feel like an idiot, and an ass, for being as mean as I have been. Of course he's upset. He's injured, probably in pain, and he clearly has no idea where he is.

"Are you all done having laughs at my expense?" he snaps, shifting his weight to fold his arms across his chest. "I'm glad I could be so amusing to you, when my friends might be dying." He's thoroughly miserable and the look on his face is pitiful but he still gets my back up.

"You know what my favorite thing about you is already, Alistair?" I bite back, "Your winning personality. You really know how to make a girl want to help you."

"Help me? Help me by sending me back! This is your fault in the first place!"

He's really making me want to tear my hair out. This is what arguing with Jack feels like every time right before I toss him out. "For the last time, Alistair, I didn't do anything but hide in my bathtub while some inclement weather deposited a clearly deranged man right into my vegetable patch!"

"Right, I'm the deranged one," he snorts.

"I'm glad you agree," I snap, and I know a sound like a child but I just can't help it. "Why don't you dry off and then use my phone to call your friends so you can leave."

He just stands there, glaring at me, with water dripping from his armor and onto my floor.

"Well?" I demand when he doesn't move.

"What are you talking about?" he asks instead of answering me. He narrows his eyes at me again, like he thinks I'm up to something and I draw in a very slow breath to keep from screaming.

"I'm sorry, do I need to talk slower? I want you to stop dripping water all over my floor and then take my phone from the kitchen, and call your friends, so they can come and pick you up and I can go see if my peas can be salvaged."

"My friends are days into the Deep Roads, how do you expect me to get a hold of them from here? Magic?" he retorts angrily. I swear to God we are not on the same page and he's doing it on purpose. I get that maybe he's an actor and he's trying to stay in character but enough is really enough already. I pluck a throw pillow from my couch and press it to my face so I can scream into it without making noise.

By the time I toss the pillow back where it belongs, he's looking at me with wide eyes like _I'm _the one that's insane. "No!" I shout, stomping my feet in what my grandmother would call a tantrum. "I don't want you to use magic because there's no such thing as magic. I want you to use my telephone so I can pretend that today never happened! What part of that is so complicated?!"

I know how he must have felt when I laughed at him, because it's how I feel when he starts laughing at me. "Ha ha, right! No magic. I'll run and tell the Revered Mother," he chuckles sarcastically. The very idea seems to tickle him and I want nothing more than to punch him in his stupid face when he doesn't stop laughing at me.

"Yeah," he chides, collecting himself enough to notice my displeasure. "It doesn't feel good, does it?"

"Shut up," I grumble, pressing my hands to my eyes to stop the headache I know is looming on the horizon. "There's no such thing as magic, you're just an actor who drunkenly crashed through my fence because you were too stupid to get out of the storm."

"Why do you keep saying that?" he demands, stepping forward into the room and finally away from door.

"Because it's true!"

"It isn't!"

"It is!"

"Prove it!"

"You can't prove a negative, idiot," I bellow, throwing my pillow at him and moving closer to jab him in the chest again. "The burden of proof would be on you to prove that it does exist!"

"Fine!" His face is red from shouting and his forehead is bleeding again but I don't really care right now. I hear the shifting and clinking of his armor as he moves faster than I expect, and all I can really think about is how very real his armor looks before everything tunnels.

I sway on my feet and stumble backwards, unable to breathe for a terrifying second until my world rights itself and I gasp for air. I must look as terrified as I feel, because his expression has gone from pissed off to apologetic almost immediately and he reaches out an arm to steady me.

"What was that?!" I wheeze, retreating from him until the backs of my legs bump the low arm of my couch. "Everything was blue."

"So, you're not an apostate then," he offers, and it almost sounds like he's sorry. Almost. "That was a smite. You know? Templars? It drains mana?"

He's insane. Or I'm insane. I have to be the one that's insane because I think what just happened is I screamed at him to prove that magic existed and he _did._

I collapse backwards over the side of my couch and throw my arms over my face. 'Don't go borrowing trouble,' isn't that what my grandmother is always telling me? Sorry grandma, it looks like this time it borrowed me and I have no idea what to do.

"Sarah?" Alistair's voice is a two parts unsure and one part confused and it makes me laugh bitterly.

Alright, it's time to put my big girl pants on. I sit up and cross my legs, propping my chin up on one palm and fix Alistair with my best we're-going-to-figure-this-out face. "I have no idea what's going on," I state plainly. "I really don't. So you're going to need to start talking, or explaining, or something because I'm confused. Start at the beginning."

The look on his face isn't promising and I restrain the urge to throw another pillow at him. "No, that can't be right," he counters, and I can hear the beginnings of anxiety creeping into his voice. "You have to know because you're the one who brought me here."

"Alistair! I already told you that I didn't! Seriously, if we are going to figure out what's going on, then you need to tell me the last thing you remember before I woke you up." I can't sit still, and I jump up from the couch again even though I only just sat still. I prowl the living room, worrying the bottom of my tank top. This is not happening to me.

"I was in the Deep Roads with Elissa, we'd just reached this Thaig that was full of hostile ghosts and we were getting ready to fight them when we were ambushed by Darkspawn."

I hold my hand up to stop him because he's lost me already and I have no idea what he's talking about. "What are the Deep Roads? What do you mean you were fighting ghosts? For that matter, what the hell is a Darkspawn? Alistair, I can't help you if you're not making any sense."

"Maybe I'm in the Fade," he grumbles, annoyed at my lack of understanding. "I'm in the Fade and you're a spirit of irritation. They have those, right?"

I throw another pillow at him and he dodges it easily. I need to take a deep breath and get myself grounded. I need to look at this with my science brain and not my freaking out brain. "Okay, let's try again. You said you were in the Deep Roads. Where or what are the Deep Roads?"

Alistair sighs and when he speaks, I can tell he's humoring me the way he would humor a child. "The Deep Roads are in Orzammar, beneath the Frostback Mountains. It's where the bulk of the Darkspawn Horde can be found when there isn't a Blight."

"I know this is probably going to sound like a dumb question to you," I begin, fairly certain I've never heard of any of these landmarks or locations. He's talking like I should, and that concerns me. "But are those places in Europe?"

His face gives me the answer I'm dreading before he even opens his mouth to ask, "where?"

Well shit. I don't know much about wormholes, or alternate dimensions, or anything like that, and suddenly I wish that I do because I've got the feeling I'm in way over my head with some quantum physics shenanigans that I am in no way prepared for.

"Where are you from?" I ask instead.

"Redcliffe." He seems to understand just as much as I do, that this is not a normal situation, and he's cooperating.

"Where is Redcliffe?"

He gives me another look like I'm an idiot, but answers anyway. "Ferelden."

"Where is Ferelden?"

This time he actually looks offended. "Thedas."

"And everyone can do magic in Thedas?"

He scoffs at me and I shoot him an ugly look, silently reminding him that I have no idea what he's even talking about. "No, not everyone. Just the mages."

"But you can do magic? You did it on me."

"No," he clarifies. "I used a smite on you. It's designed to combat mages. Most likely, since you don't have mana to drain, it just knocked the breath from you."

I accept everything he says easier than I thought I would, though my head is still spinning. I consider denying everything he's telling me and tossing him out on his shiny metal behind but I can hear the truth in his voice whispering at the base of my brain. He's not lying, and then there's the fact that he did something to me that I can't explain. For now, I'm going to have to go with the fact that he's from...somewhere that science hasn't gotten to yet. I'm pretty sure I have the worst luck of anyone to ever to live.

I take a minute to breathe and find that I'm not as stressed out by this as I probably should be, but I roll with it. First things first, I wouldn't want to disappoint my grandmother. Ignoring the surprise on his face, I march straight up to him and hold my hand out, like I was raised. "Welcome to my home, Alistair. My name is Sarah Blake, can I offer you something to drink?"

He doesn't move and I stand there stubbornly, holding my hand out until he grasps it in his own. "Alistair," he replies uncertainly, and I release his hand. "A drink sounds great, but maybe an injury kit would be better, first?"

* * *

He's sitting on my couch with Tom perched on his knee when I return victoriously from my ten minute quest to locate my missing First Aid Kit. "I think you're going to have to take your armor off first," I muse thoughtfully, pushing my coffee table closer to the couch so I can sit on it.

"That's what they always say," he jokes, patting Tom on the head. "First it's, take off your armor, Alistair! Then it's, come into this dark room with me, Alistair! Then pow! Robbed blind and naked to boot."

I snort and roll my eyes, but I'm feeling far more amiable toward him then I was earlier so there's very little heat in it. "If I was going to rob you, I would have done it when you were passed out in my garden," I point out, unscrewing the cap on my peroxide and tearing open a pack of gauze.

"Right," he chuckles. Tom stretches and jumps from Alistair's knee onto the floor with a grunt that only chubby cats can manage and promptly curls up beneath the coffee table. "Besides," I continue, lining up the squares of gauze in neat little rows. "If I tried to rob you, you could probably just pick me up and throw me out the window. What are you, six hundred feet tall?"

"There is that," he agrees. He sneezes, and I remember that his armor is likely still retaining water, which is just another reason for him to take it off. "You're going to catch a cold," I warn pointedly. "Just take it off. I know you're not naked underneath it, either, so you might as well."

"I could very well be naked," he replies petulantly, but he rises to his feet and begins working on the buckles and straps that keep his armor in place. Now that we're not screaming at each other, I take the time to actually _look _at the gear, and I'm impressed. It's quality made, not that I could probably tell the difference honestly, but it looks incredible. It's heavy, obviously, and it's still holding up despite the fact that he looks like he got hit by a train.

"Do you need help?" I notice his right shoulder isn't as mobile as it should be, and he's having problems reaching around to get the straps on his left side.

"Maybe, ah, a little bit," he admits with a flush, and I leave my perfect gauze squares in their orderly rows to help him unfasten his breastplate. I fumble at first, being unfamiliar with armor but I get it at last and I help him slide it free. I move to take it from him but he doesn't let me, and I scowl because he still doesn't trust me despite the fact that I'm going out on a limb here to believe him and help him.

"It's too heavy for you to lift," he explains, which makes me feel only slightly better, since he's just implied that I'm a weenie, which I am, but still. The rest of his armor is just as slowly divested, and he blushes more than a time or two when I'm helping him with his greaves, but eventually it all comes off and he's still just as bulky without the armor as he is with it.

I feel a little more normal looking at him now that he's wearing what's essentially a thin spun linen tunic and leather breeches. Without his armor, I can see the full extent of the damage he's suffering and I know already that I'm not going to be able to fix all of it.

His face looks to be the least messed up and so I decide to start there. He winces when I press gauze soaked in antiseptic and peroxide to his forehead but doesn't pull away. "So, what happened? The Darkspawn, right?"

His eyes slide from mine and I can tell he doesn't want to talk about it, but he answers me anyway. "It was an ogre, basically the nastiest big bad you can think of it. They're tall, and broad with breath like a corpse and horns that'll tear you to pieces."

With the blood clearing away, I can tell the gash on his head is more superficial than serious and I'm relieved that I'm not going to have to make an emergency room visit with this guy, at least not yet.

"So the ogre did this? Do the Darkspawn do magic? Maybe they sent you here?" I try helpfully, pulling the plastic coating from a butterfly bandage and carefully placing it over the area I've just cleaned.

"Maybe," he grunts in assent. "The Emissaries can do magic. Do you really not know what the Darkspawn are?"

I shrug and apply a fresh piece of gauze to his bleeding shoulder. "We don't have those here," I answer absently, more concerned with whether or not there are pieces of metal lodged in his shoulder than I am with whether or not there are ogres in America.

"You're lucky," he mutters darkly, and I let the matter drop for now. We're still on tentatively thin ice and I don't feel like another screaming match when we've both just calmed down. "Who's Elissa?" I try again, fishing blindly behind me for my tweezers when it looks like there are bits of armor glittering at me from his torn flesh.

"Elissa is...she's a Grey Warden like I am." He recoils from the snapping pincers of my tweezers and I glare him into sitting still so I can dig the shards of steel from his shoulder. "Ouch, woman! Watch how you wield those things."

"Sorry," I offer, but I'm really not sorry. These pieces have to come out if I'm going to bandage it and have it heal without an infection. "So Elissa is your girlfriend then?" I try to keep him talking so he's not focusing on how much my tweezers hurt, but he's not cooperating like I want him to.

"No," comes a flat reply that I'm not expecting and I shut my mouth, knowing that I've stepped too far into something that's not my business. There's history there, a story that I'm dying to know because gossip is my fatal flaw but I don't push the issue.

We lapse into an awkward and uncomfortable silence punctuated by hisses of pain and murmurs of apology when I hurt him on accident and I move as quickly as I can because this prickly silence is worse than the argument. I get him to lift his shirt while I poke and prod at his ribs and determine that they're not broken, or at least not broken in a way that's life threatening and declare him repaired.

"Hey uh, thanks," he mutters, dropping his shirt down and settling back against the cushions of my couch with a pained sigh.

"Yeah, sure thing," I reply too quickly, gathering up the piles of blood stained gauze and cotton and snapping my First Aid kit closed. I disappear into my kitchen where I throw away the trash and throw the kit back on top of my fridge before I put my head in my hands and try not to cry at my kitchen sink.

Everything is sinking in too quickly and I feel like I must be coming out of shock because it's all too heavy all of sudden. Alistair is here from somewhere called Thedas, magic exists - at least there, and he did it on me. I don't know how to help him get home, if I even can, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with him here. If I were cruel, I could throw him out onto the street and pretend like he wasn't my problem, but I'm not and I can't.

We're stuck with each other, for the moment, and I realize that he's got no place to stay and so he has to be stay here with me. In my house, with Tom and me and all of my things that he maybe won't understand and I still don't _actually _know that he's not crazy and won't try to kill me.

I sniffle and wipe my eyes even though I didn't actually cry and I lift my chin. I'm battling back and forth between deciding to be an adult about this bizarre situation or running and hiding until I can get a hold of my grandmother and having her deal with it.

I flick on my coffee maker and dump a load of grounds into the top to start of pot of much needed caffeine relief and decide that if this is happening, then it's going to happen and I might as well just deal with it. The coffee will probably help steel me on that front.

I peek around the corner from the kitchen into the living room and watch Alistair while the pot bubbles and perks to life, whirring and filling the house with the scent of French roast. He's just sitting there on my couch, all jokes and hostility gone now that he's alone. His head is in his hands and his shoulders are slumped forward. My face goes hot and I feel uncomfortable for spying on a moment when he's vulnerable like that. I keep forgetting that he's in this too, and that it's not just happening to me. It's probably worse for him. Didn't he say his friends could be dead? My stomach drops and I avert my eyes, returning to the kitchen and feeling worse than I have since all of this started.

Minutes tick by, clicked into existence by the hands of my wall clock and my pot of coffee finally quiets and is finished. Sugar, cream and black steaming salvation are splashed into two mugs and I hang back nervously in the entrance of the living room. Steam tickles my skin from where it rolls off the mugs and I sigh, unhappy with how awkward I suddenly feel in my own home. "Hey," I all but whisper with the first smile of the dwindling afternoon. I offer him a cup of coffee and he takes it with a small smile of his own. "That'll help first things first."

I draw in a deep breath. We're already neck deep in it, so we might as well start swimming. "I can't make you any set in stone promises but, I'll try to figure out why you're here and how to get you back, okay?"

He smiles back at me and I can feel myself relax. "Okay," he agrees, and I settle into the comfort of my couch, on the opposite end from where he's sitting and taking up all the space. "Alright then, Alistair. Let's start at the beginning. You were in the Deep Roads, right?"

He nods and leans forward over his mug of coffee, which he still hasn't touched. "Right. Elissa and Wynne and Leliana and I were down in the Deep Roads."


	3. Bright Bulbs and Sharp Tools: Chapter 2

**A/N: My apologies in the delayed chapter, things got busier than I expected and while I was still writing, it was only at the pace that my schedule would allow.**

**I don't own anything but Sarah, Jack and Tom.**

* * *

_The sound you're hearing_

_Is the symphony of what we are_

_Revelation will not come_

_With heart and mind closed and divided_

* * *

It takes several hours for Alistair to explain to me the basest of information about Thedas. I stop him at each unfamiliar word or phrase and ask him to elaborate, which frustrates him at first but he gradually just accepts that my questions will come and he answers them accordingly. My confusion, questions and need for him to explain some things more than once is no doubt contributing to how long this is taking. By six o'clock, I've learned that Ferelden is one country in Thedas, and that there are others and they vaguely parallel the countries here. By seven thirty, I have a basic understanding of how magic works and the laws that accompany it, and by eight forty-five both of our stomachs are rumbling so the conversation moves into the kitchen while I start making preparations for dinner. A pot of water is set to boil and vodka tomato sauce from a bottle (I'm not exactly Martha Stewart) simmers on a back burner. "Tell me about the Darkspawn," I propose, hauling myself up onto my kitchen counter where I sit with my legs crossed in front of me and an open bag of chips at my side.

"Good thing _that's _not a vague question or anything," he replies smoothly. He leans against my refrigerator and I'm impressed again with just how sizable he is. "What do you want to know about them?"

I shrug and dig a tortilla chip from its crinkly home. I pop it into my mouth and offer him the bag, which he looks at curiously but doesn't actually accept. "I dunno, I don't know anything about them so I'm not sure what to ask. Are they monsters? Are they people? How many of them are there? What are they? Where did they come from? How do you kill them?" the list could easily go on, and is in danger of doing so when he holds up his hands to ward off my questions. "Maker, woman. Slow down. Why do you even want to know about them? You said you don't have them here."

I flush and dip my head to avoid his gaze, taking the opportunity to munch on another chip. "I just want to know, that's all. I'm curious. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." I wave the bag of chips in his direction again and feel overly thrilled when he relents and takes one. It feels like a step in the right direction, a true peace offering in the shape of tortilla chips. It's in his mouth without a second thought and he's chewing but I can't tell from his expression whether he likes it or not. "The Darkspawn are monsters that used to be people." He volunteers, and inwardly I cheer. Progress is progress, after all. I lean over the pot of water but it's not boiling yet so I go back to ignoring it in favor of Alistair's answers about the Darkspawn. "What do you mean they used to be people?"

He sighs and gestures for me to give him the bag of chips again. I do and he pops another one into his mouth. "According to the Chantry, the first Darkspawn were created when Tevinter mages went into the Maker's Golden City. They corrupted it with their...mage-ness, I guess, and to punish them for their sins he turned them into the first Darkspawn. The Genlocks used to be Dwarves, the Hurlocks human, shrieks were elves and if you ask me, ogres look a lot like some of the Qunari. They live in holes and caves under the ground. You can find most of them in the Deep Roads when there isn't a Blight."

He isn't sharing the bag of chips, but I don't really care. I'm trying to picture these creatures, these monsters that used to be people, but I can't. I have nothing to visualize or compare them to. "Where are they when there _is_ a Blight?"

Alistair frowns and hands me back the chips, looking as though he's not in the mood for them anymore. "Everywhere. They come up out of their holes, out of the Deep Roads and caves and march as horde. Everything they touch is death. They're an army of foul corruption, even the ground where they walk withers and dies and nothing will grown in the blackness for a long, long time, if it ever does. They destroy everything."

I shiver, understanding his loss of interest in what I've dubbed to be our 'friendchips'. "What do they want?" I ask quietly, a hush in my voice that must come from the heaviness of our topic.

"They don't want anything," he answers simply, grimly. "They just destroy. That's why it's a Blight."

He grows quieter, more still, and I can tell this conversation is leading his mind places that he'd rather it not go, but I can't help my questions. The idea of these things is so foreign and horrible, I feel like I want to know everything about them because that will somehow make what they are make more sense. "What do they look like?" I ask, regretting the question almost before it's out of my mouth.

He frowns, that line creasing his brow like it always does when he's in deep thought or when he's angry; and I'm a little concerned when I realize that I can already tell that about him. "They'll win no prizes for beauty, that's for sure. You can tell what they were before, almost. The Genlocks are short and stocky, the Hurlocks like I said, look like humans but...they're just these rotten things made of teeth and bad attitudes. Be glad you've never seen one. You never forget it."

The water on the stove is boiling finally and I slip from the counter, gesturing for Alistair to move so that I can get at the contents of my refrigerator. He watches curiously as I paw through the random containers and jugs of milk and juice, searching for the cheese stuffed raviolis that I know are in there because I bought them for a dinner I'd planned for me and Jack. I've been wanting to eat them for a few days now and this is as good an excuse as any. The fridge door closes and Alistair goes right back to leaning against it like he belongs there.

"How do you stop the Blight?" I ask over the sound of cheese filled pasta dropping into the pot of water. "With magic? You said they can do magic, too." The thought makes me shudder. Monsters are bad enough, but monsters that are magic and can **do **magic? No thanks, I don't want any please.

"The Grey Wardens stop the Blight," he answers immediately, and there's such a sense of finality in his tone that I know this is one of those things that he won't talk about. The Grey Wardens and specifically the Grey Warden Elissa seem to be off-limits for now, and I don't press my luck. I'm happy that he's even talking to me at all, because he was quite pointedly not in a chatty mood earlier. If I'm supposed to figure out what he's doing here and how I'm supposed to get him home, I'll need all the information I can get, so any that he's willing to volunteer is checked off as a bonus in my head.

The raviolis are dancing and jetting around the bubbles in the pot and I can tell they're almost done, poking at them with my wooden cooking spoon. "Are there a lot of Grey Wardens?"

"No." We're back to one word answers and his tone is frosty. I can't seem to stop putting my foot in my mouth. Navigating what's okay to ask him and what's going to upset him is trickier than I thought it would be, and I'm wary of scaring him off completely. Stupidly, I feel responsible for him. He's here in my home, he landed in my garden, he yelled at me. I feel like I should be the one to help him, I should be the one to get him home.

I fumble gracelessly with my poking spoon and end up jabbing one of the raviolis a little too hard, splitting it open right down the middle. I wince, lamenting the cheese that's bleeding out into the boiling water. I scowl and silently judge it for being such a flimsy piece of pasta, blaming all of my troubles from the day on it and its leaking cheese. Stupid, delicious thing.

I've lapsed into a silence that seems to make Alistair uncomfortable, if his fidgeting is anything to go by, and I sigh, fishing for something to say to the person who seems to get upset at the things that I say even if I don't mean for him to. "Tell me about your friends," I say at last, settling on what I hope is a neutral topic. It's the right choice and he grins down at me from his height, his eyes drifting to the ravaged ravioli that I'm punishing with repeated pokes.

"They're like my family. Wynne is a mage, a healer, and she wields guilt and propriety and stern looks the way that Sten wields his sword." He chuckles at his joke, but I can't exactly join him, as I have no idea who Sten is either. "He's a Qunari, a big fellow with the dourest face you've ever seen," he elaborates, when I don't share in his amusement. "I don't think I've ever heard him tell a joke or laugh at a joke the entire time I've known him."

He tells me about Leliana, the bard turned Sister turned Maybe-Crazy traveling companion to himself and Elissa. I hear about Barkspawn, the Mabari and that derails the conversation immediately when I ask what a Mabari is. I want one, by the end of his explanation. Shale the Golem, Zevran the sex-o-flex elven rogue, Ohgren the ale soaked dwarf and Morrigan are all names that are added to the list in my head, and I can't help but notice he's left Elissa conspicuously absent again.

The pasta is done and I lift it from the stove to the strainer I have sitting in the sink. Steam billows up and rolls over my face as it always does, fogging my glasses until I sigh and am unable to see anything at all. I'm sure it looks ridiculous, so for the time being I take them off and stick them on the counter beside me. Better not to see and look like a lady, than to see and look like a fool, my grandmother would say. Free of water, the raviolis are returned to the pot and are joined by the sauce and I let it simmer for a minute longer before clicking my stove off entirely.

"Why don't you talk about Elissa?" I ask, turning to face him. I fiddle absently with the hair tie around my wrist and my curiosity piques when he frowns at me. I'm not an idiot, so I can guess where this is going, I just want to be _sure. _Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back and I just can't stand the thought of maybe being wrong about a conclusion that I've jumped to.

"Why do you care?" he counters, folding his arms across his chest and looking away. Even banged up and bruised, with bandages and my semi-capable tending of his wounds, he looks good. I can't help it; I'd be blind or an idiot not to notice. It doesn't mean I'm interested, it just means that he's easy on the eyes.

"I asked you first," I bounce back, half turning to stir the pasta into the final minute or two it needs to sit before I can dish it out.

"Maybe I don't want to talk about it." Maybe? I can tell that he definitely doesn't.

"You said she's not your girlfriend, so what's the big deal? Is it secret Grey Warden stuff? I know you can't tell me about them, if that's it I'll just stop asking."

He grunts at me, and I whisk the pot of pasta from the stove to my counter top, now that it's cooled enough, and begin plying two bowls with fair, dinner sized portions. "So it's not Grey Warden stuff, then," I guess correctly. "It's something else. Alright, fair enough."

He grunts again and even though I can feel the heat of his glare on my back, I hold my head up high and pretend like I don't. The bowls are relocated to the my kitchen table and I gesture for Alistair to sit down, which he does. His stormy expression falters in the face of the tempting smells drifting from his dinner and I can tell he's making an effort to stay mad. I join him at the table, two cans of soda in hand and slide one across to him. He looks at it funny and it takes me a moment before I realize he has no idea what it is. I lean over and pop the pull tab for him, cracking it open and watching him squint at it.

He's so suspicious about everything, but with the way his stomach is grumbling I get the feeling that he's not going to hold out for long and it only takes about a minute and a half for him to start shoveling the food I've prepared into his mouth at a pace so fast it makes me pause. "What are you, starving?" I boggle. His bowl is empty before mine is even half, and he's looking so longingly at the pot where the leftovers are that I slide my bowl over to him.

"Just hungry," he answers, taking a break from inhaling his food to breathe. I crack open my own soda and take a drink, enjoying the crisp bubbles on my tongue half relaxing for the first time all day. He's slowed down his ravenous devouring to a more acceptable chomping. He seems to like it just fine, which fills me with a stupid pride. I was half worried that the food between here and there would be too different and he wouldn't want to eat it, or maybe he'd accuse me of trying to poison him or something. He's weird. I can tell that already.

The ceiling fan in my kitchen stirs the air and I prop my chin on my fist, watching him eat the last of whatever is in my bowl and go back to help himself to thirds from the pot on the stove. "What do you like to do, Alistair?" I ask on a whim. Everything I've asked him so far has been information based. I'm learning, about Thedas and Darkspawn and Mages, but not about him, and I'm curious.

He returns to the table with what is no doubt the last of the leftovers heaping in his bowl and slides back into his chair across from me. "Save the world, rescue pretty damsels in distress and be generally dashing and dapper and heroic all the time," he answers glibly, taking a cautious first sip of his soda. I've forgotten to warn him about how tart it will be, and I failed to mention the fizzy bubbles that make carbonated drinks so great, and he sputters, half choking when he swallows it wrong.

"If you choke and die because you can't drink soda right, I'll make fun of you," I warn, watching him gasp and fan his face while he tries to regain his composure. He shoots me a dirty look and I just smirk in return.

"If I choke and die," he gasps, finally getting a grasp on his malfunctioning wind pipe, "then you'll never get to find out what I do for fun and you'll waste your days away wondering just what it was."

I laugh easily, leaning back in my chair to watch him demolish the rest of our dinner. "I think that somehow, Alistair, I'd find a way to survive. Besides, you already told me so your argument is more than a little bit invalid. Dashing, dapper and heroic, remember?"

He grins at me, and I'm thrown for a loop. He's so back and forth that it's making my head spin. One minute he's the serious grey warden who's trapped in a strange place, and the next he's just Alistair, cracking jokes and spilling vodka sauce on my table when he eats too fast. The longer he stays here in my house, the more trouble I can already tell I'm going to be in. He's cute, he's charming and he's utterly dependent on me to get him out of here. It's a recipe for disaster that I can see coming from a mile away. I'm too bad at not getting attached to people. I can't even throw away the envelopes that my mother mails my birthday cards in.

I smother a yawn with my fist and lean my head on the table, my eyelids threatening to droop shut. It's been such a long day and I've been up since before the sun. I don't say anything more, and Alistair finishes his food in silence. I can tell he's watching me, because I can feel it, but I don't look up to double check. That would require energy that I suddenly find myself lacking.

He's done eating, I know because his silverware is quiet and I take a moment longer to myself before pasting on a smile and pushing myself up from the table. The dishes I can just take care of tomorrow, crusted on food be damned. My grandmother would choke, but hey, these are extenuating circumstances.

"Thanks for answering all my questions," I mumble through another yawn. My arms stretch up and over my head and I grunt, relishing the feeling of my muscles squeezing and contracting from the sudden movement. "I'm sure I'll have more tomorrow when I've taken the time to properly sit and think about things. You probably have a lot of questions too, and we'll take care of those tomorrow as well."

Tomorrow is already making my head hurt and it's not even here yet.

Alistair nods and my yawns must be infectious because he's fighting them off just as much as I am. "You can sleep in the guest room," I offer graciously - is it ungracious to refer to yourself as gracious? "Follow me, I'll show you where it is."

He lumbers behind me, his footfalls surprisingly quiet for someone so large, and I have to keep peeking over my shoulder to reassure myself that he's actually following me and hasn't wandered off to find some horribly humiliating thing that I have no doubt is in my house. A twist and a turn down a hallway ends abruptly at a closed door, and I gesture toward it lazily. "There's a bed and a TV in there. If it's kind of...old lady in there it's because that's the room my grandmother stays in when she comes to visit. Just don't mess up any of her things and you'll be fine."

He nods again, his hand dwarfing the knob on the door as he turns it and I lean around him, flicking the light and making sure he sees me do it so I don't have to explain. "I'm just down the hall if you need me for something, just come bang on my door. I sleep pretty hard so it might take a minute or two."

I'm halfway to my room when I hear the door creak open and I turn back when I hear him calling my name. He looks awkward, reminding me of a boy who's only just remembered the manners he's been forgetting. "Thanks for the help, and err, good night."

I smile at him, like I've been doing all night because I can't help myself. "'Night, Alistair."

* * *

I wake up before the sun, a habit (or a problem) I've had since I was a teenager. By the time six AM rolls around I'm already awake with my teeth brushed and my game-face on for the day and by the time the sun is shining in merrily through my window, I've already called my shop to tell them I'm not coming in and gotten half of my morning chores done.

It's warm and nice when I slide open my back door and step out onto my porch. It's a welcome fluctuation from our normally chilly weather and I take advantage of it, dropping a sunhat onto my messy hair and tugging on boots over my pajamas. With Alistair still asleep, this is the perfect opportunity to investigate the full damage that was done to not only my peas, but to my fence as well.

It's strange to stand in the place where he just...appeared. I can't even think that without feeling silly, but it happened. There's a tangy snap in the air, a lingering friction that raises the hair on my arms and I inhale deeply. The scent of ozone is everywhere, it tastes like lightning and I wonder if it's the residual effects of whatever magic it was that sent Alistair to me.

Unfortunately, there is no hope for my vegetables after the tragedy of the Great Pea Massacre, but I kneel down next to them and do what I can anyway. Their poor shoots are cracked and split, no doubt from where Alistair's considerable weight landed on them, and the pretty pink and purple flowers have turned the dusky grey of crushed petals. I sigh sadly, tracing a finger tip across a ruined, silky bloom. Peas aren't difficult to grow, but I'm fond of my garden and I feel awful that this happened. My poor peas. A shiver tickles my spine and I quiver in reflex. 'Someone walked over my grave,' is the phrase that we used to describe that feeling back home, and ominously, it feels accurate. Looking down at my damaged and lost vegetables, I wonder vaguely if this only the beginning of something that is already spiraling rapidly out of my control. It's a thought that tightens my stomach. Nothing can be done for my peas, fate dealt them the blow of an Alistair shaped demise. I find myself hoping that it doesn't have the same thing in mind for me.

My fence, the not-so-sturdy wooden creation that it is, has taken some moderate damage, but it looks like something that can be easily repaired. I'm making a mental note to call Jack and have him come look at it when I freeze. I feel my eyes widen and my gaze darts back to the curtained window of the room that Alistair is currently sleeping in. _Shit. _How am I supposed to explain him to Jack? We're not together anymore, not at the moment anyway, but that still doesn't do much for how this is going to look. Our most recent split was only a few days ago, and already I've got a man sleeping in the guest bedroom. I've never been a good liar, and Jack can spot when I'm trying to pull one over on him almost immediately. I have to think of something, and quick. Despite our break-ups, Jack comes and goes as he pleases. It's never bothered me before, I know that we have a strange relationship, but I irrationally don't want him poking around the house while Alistair is around.

The break up culminated in Jack leaving his keys, but that too, has happened before and I always end up giving them back to him. The idea of Jack lounging on my couch with Tom on his knee and Alistair in the guest bedroom makes my stomach drop uncomfortably, and I can recognize that the foolish desire I have to suddenly protect Alistair from a man who wouldn't mean him any harm anyway is ridiculous. Still, it's a notion that I can't shake and I'm concerned for what might happen if Jack were to show up. We're on-again, off-again, but this situation is new, and not even just because Alistair is in the mix. I've never had men over, or dated in the stretches in between Jack and I. I don't _actually _know how he might react. I like to plan things, I like mapping them out and writing lists and organizing. I do not like not knowing what might happen.

My peas seem suddenly very small and inconsequential and with a mournful look back at their crumpled shoots that won't be growing any longer, I snatch the hat from my head and bound inside. I'm moving faster than is reasonably necessary, but I can't help it. Now that I've considered the possibility of Jack showing up unannounced, it seems like it can and will happen at any given moment and I'm _so _unprepared that it's freaking me out. Not that there's actually much I could do to prepare, but I still bustle around my house with the force of a whirlwind. Cabinets rattle and chairs squeak as I move them needlessly, I can't shake the crawling feeling that I'm missing something and so I set out trying to find it.

* * *

It would help if I knew what I'm looking for, but I don't. I'm hoping I know it when I see it, so I can stop feeling like I've completely forgotten something important. It's a quarter after ten when I hear the door of my guest bedroom creak open on squeaky hinges and I pause my ransacking when I hear the quiet pad of Alistair's feet coming toward me. I feel like an idiot, when the flash of recognition thrills me. Of course, that's what I was forgetting. He's got no shoes on, and his hair is sticking up every which way as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?" he mumbles, running a hand through his hair and disturbing it into even further disarray. He's so cute that it hurts.

"Ah, maybe a little after ten," I answer, still feeling like a moron. I don't know how I keep forgetting that Alistair is a _person _but I do. I keep thinking of him as something that happened to me, rather than someone that I'm stuck in a situation with. I've been worrying over what might happen if Jack finds out that he's staying here, without stopping to actually just ask Alistair for his input. I get ahead of myself far too often. "Do you want to take a shower?" His brow furrows and the look he gives me is silently perplexed. "Oh right," I cluck, "you don't know what that is. Let me amend my question into two parts. A, do you want to know what a shower is? B, would you like to take a shower?"

I'm on my way to the bathroom before he answers, and I hear him fall into place behind me. My bathroom isn't small, but it's not gigantic either and it feels a little bit crowded with Alistair standing at the shower right next to me. Every time my shoulder or arm brushes against his, I'm painfully aware that he's adorable when he's sleepy. It sounds so absurd, but I really can't help it. I can repeat my mantra of _off limits, off limits _as many times as I want, and it won't stop me from appreciating his face. Not that I plan on putting the moves on him, like I would even know how to do something like that, but there's no harm in looking. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

"Alright, I'll keep it simple for you," I begin, pushing the shower curtain aside and stepping over the lip of my tub. "Turn this one left for hot water." My hand falls on the control for water temperature and I look up to make sure he's paying attention. "Turn this right for cold, if you mess up and end up turning in a direction you didn't mean to, you're in for an unhappy surprise." I straighten my back and point above my head, at the spigot. "This is where the water comes out. It's kind of like...a waterfall, except less noisy and less...splashy." So far so good, he seems to be following. He's got an interested look on his face, at any rate. My previous observation that maybe he wasn't too bright is rapidly turning around to bite me in the ass. He's picking up on things faster than I thought he would.

"So it's for bathing," he guesses without hesitation. He possesses a courage that I lack when it comes to tackling new things and new ideas, and it warms me. I can't volunteer an answer unless I'm absolutely certain I know it's the right one.

"Right!" I beam up at him, pleased that he's catching on so quickly and he looks startled by my reaction, but I'm rewarded with a lazy smile none the less. "The water is carried through pipes in the walls and pumped out here, where you use it to bathe. See the drain down there? That'll carry the water down and into the city pipes where it'll be cleaned and pumped back through." I really hope I got that right, I'm not a plumber, I don't know anything about water systems or how they actually even work. I just use them. Still, I'm fairly certain I got the gist of it correct, and what matters is that he understands that he can use this to get clean. Nothing is worse than a smelly man.

"Shampoo is here, conditioner is here if you use that, I don't know if you have that where you come from. Shampoo goes in your hair, conditioner goes in after, rinse it out. They work just like soap, which is also right there, by the way. Towels are in that closet, make sure the shower curtain is tucked into the tub, remember to lose your pants," I rattle off, introducing him to the things in my bathroom while I back away to give him some privacy. "The door locks, take your time. I haven't had a shower yet but I can just take one after you've finished."

I click the door shut behind me and I hear the spray of the water against the tub that means he's successfully started the shower, at least. I bite my lip against my laughter when I hear a curse and a yelp not too long after. I forgot to tell him that the water needs a minute to warm up. "Maker's breath, woman!" he bellows through the door, and I scurry away lest my laughter get the best of me.


	4. Where There Is Light: Chapter 3

__**A/N: I'm sorry in the delay in getting this chapter to you! To all of the people who reviewed and favorited, I love you! Each review makes me want to write even more because I don't want to let you guys down. :) Currently, I'm looking for a beta reader, so if someone is interested, send me a PM!  
**

**I, of course, only own Sarah, Jack and Tom.  
**

* * *

_The gods play games_

_With mortal hearts_

_As the carousel goes round_

_As I looked on_

_I saw the crowds who gathered_

* * *

Amusement pulls the corners of my mouth upwards into a smile while I bustle around the kitchen to prepare a late breakfast. The sound of running water in the bathroom has me humming merrily and I realize that I like the idea of having another person in my house. I'm not very good with people, I don't have many friends. Even with Jack, I end up feeling lonely sometimes. The reassurance that there's someone comfortable enough with me to get naked in my bathroom nearby fills me with a previously unknown warmth, a feeling that quickly sinks pessimistically when I remind myself that it's only temporary. Alistair isn't staying for good, he's not here to be my friend or hang out. He's some blitzy Grey Warden-Knight from a place where they have magic and that squarely has absolutely nothing to do with me. Still, there's no harm in enjoying his company, as weird and on edge as it makes me, and my mood buoys once more.

Eggs are cracked and set to sizzle on my skillet and toast is thumped down without ceremony into my toaster. Bacon fries and oatmeal bubbles and only after everything is halfway finished cooking do I realize that I've made way too much food. Where I'm from, and in my family, breakfast - and food in general - is a grandiose, feel good affair, with extras and left overs stretching for days, but it's a tradition that I haven't really carried on. Breakfast for me normally consists of some fruit and some toast, and here I am preparing food like I'm back at home. A sigh huffs past my lips and I placate myself with the knowledge that if last night's feeding frenzy was anything to go by, there wouldn't actually be anything left over the time Alistair is done demolishing it.

On cue, I hear the water cease pounding against the ceramic tub and the curtain rings scrape loudly when he pulls the shower curtain to one side. I can hear him bustling around and my cheeks darken when I involuntarily realize that he's probably _naked _right at this very second. I suddenly feel obscene and voyeuristic, thinking about him at the same time he's naked and my thoughts quickly shuttle to one side when my forgotten oatmeal bubbles threateningly. I scramble to lift it from the heat before it goes full mutiny and spills from the sides of the pot. A strangled shout warbles from my throat and I snatch the pot from the burner without the grace of a pot holder and hiss through my teeth when I feel the overheated handle bake against my skin. "Why?!" I wail, over-dramatic, as I valiantly move the searing pot to a cold burner and blow on my poor, cooked fingers, hoping to rescue them from the heat that refuses to quit.

"Loud," Alistair states, his tone matter of fact and just a little sarcastic. "You are very loud."

I nearly jump out of my skin with an unflattering squawk and whirl around. In my flurry to try and save breakfast without burning myself too badly, I completely missed the bathroom door opening and his morning foot steps. He's dressed back in the wool and linen that he wears beneath his armor and I wrinkle my nose, realizing we're going to need to wash it soon or no amount of showers will prevent him from stinking. His honey blonde hair is wet and dripping, sticking up in some places where he's had at it with a towel and his bangs are sticking damply to his forehead. I'm staring and he knows it. The slightest ghost of a smirk lingers around his mouth and I look away.

"So are you," I retort back a little late, unable to stop myself. Screwing my face up, I yelp like he did in the shower, pitching my voice lower in a poor imitation of his. "Maker's breath, woman!"

"You didn't tell me it was going to be so cold!" he accuses, snapping me with the towel he's pulled from around his shoulders. I brandish my cooking spoon at him with a growl and he snorts. "Going to poke me to pieces like you did to the food last night?"

"I might if you hit me with that towel again." It's an empty threat, lacking the heat of anger and giving away more of my amusement than I intend. The glass burners on the top of my stove lose their dull red glow when I begin switching them off one by one with the fingers of my unburned hand, and I quickly move the food from the hot skillets to cool plates where it won't overcook.

I heap his plate with as much food as I can cram onto it, and offer it to him one handed. That squint is back and I squint right back at him, scrunching my face until it's apparent to him how silly he looks. "Coffee or tea?" I question brusquely, yanking open my silverware drawer and practically throwing a fork at him. He catches it and looks offended that it almost smacked him in the chest. "Tea."

My own plate is considerably less full, with just a small bit of eggs and some bacon. "Black or green?"

"Black?" he volunteers, subtle confusion raising his voice slightly and turning his decision into a question.

I crunch cheerfully on a piece of crispy bacon and drop a few bags of black chai tea into my already piping kettle. "Hot or cold?"

"Hot." He's much more confident about this choice and he plops down at my table like he owns it, wrecking his breakfast like it's somehow wronged him. I don't join him at the table. For some reason that I can't quite put my finger on, I feel like there should be some distance between us, that it's safer for me over here on the counter, with my plate in my lap, than it would be seated only a foot away from him at the table. He's not dangerous, and I know he's not going to hurt me, but I can't help the feeling in my gut that tells me to stay away. I try not to think about it, because I don't want to know what it means.

"I need to call someone to come and fix my fence today," I manage around a mouthful of eggs. "But I wanted to make sure that you weren't going to freak out or anything." My words are as careful as I can make them, hoping that he understands I'm not really trying to offend him.

He seems to get it, at least halfway, because all he does is snort and lean back in his chair with his hands folded over his stomach. It rumbles in satisfaction and I seriously cannot wrap my mind around how much of that food he has eaten already. "I don't _freak out_, I'll have you know. I'm the very picture of composure and dignity." He smirks at me and I just lift a brow when he leans too far back in the chair and has to windmill his arms forward to keep from toppling over. "Right," he clears his throat, his cheeks tinting pink. "Why would I freak out?"

I bite back a laugh and bustle around the kitchen pulling mugs and honey from cupboards so we can have our tea. I wait until it's steaming invitingly in front of us, on our respective sides of the room, before answering. "He might freak out on you first." His rapidly incredulous and darkening expression has me scrambling to say something else before I actually make him mad _again _and I tell him far more than I mean to. "I'm not saying that he will, I'm just saying he might, since you're here and I'm here and we're here alone together and you're obviously staying here. Jack is kind of jealous but I don't know if he will be jealous or not since we're not together anymore. He might or he might not, I just wanted to let you know, for crying out loud! Stop looking at me like that, I'm trying to be courteous and you're not making it very easy by being so offended by everything. One minute you're cute and telling jokes and the next minute you're trying to throw me out the window, so to speak. So just cut it out already! I'm here to help you, and I swear by my poor dead peas that I will thunder kick you straight to the moon if you don't remember your manners more often!"

His eyes have gone from narrow to wide as saucers at my ranting outburst and my chest is heaving. My fingers and hands are trembling from the force of the broken dam of words I've just drowned him in and I stare at him defiantly with my red cheeks and panting breath, daring him to say something back.

He doesn't say anything right away. His head is down, carefully taking sips of his scalding hot tea and I worry belatedly that I've said the wrong things and he's furious at me. Instinctively, I creep forward little by little, the same way I did when he was passed out in my yard, cautiously expecting an explosion of some kind. I'm standing only a foot or so away from him when he looks up at me, the hints of a goofy smirk crinkling his face. "So I'm cute?"

I groan and chuck a piece of bacon at him from my plate. It bounces off of his chest and lands in his lap, only to be scooped up and deposited immediately into his mouth. "Shut up, Alistair. You know what I meant."

His smirk widens just a little bit and his brows raise. He's definitely amused now and he's amused at me, which just mortifies me. I was aiming for righteously indignant, or maybe even a sampling of my grandmother's notorious southern temper, but what I gave was apparently comical and not threatening in the slightest. "To the moon, you said?"

My lips press together in an effort to reign in my self-defeated sigh and I point one finger at him around my mug of tea. "I might just do it, anyway, buster. Don't tempt me. I've been known to thunder kick for far lesser offenses."

He grins at me, the legs of his kitchen chair squeaking against the floor when he pushes away from the table and stands to tower over me. My empty plate is plucked from the hand not holding my tea and he stacks it on top of his with a mock-courtly bow and a wink. "Right you are, my lady. I'll keep that in mind. Allow me." The rest of the breakfast mess is quickly grabbed and deposited into the kitchen sink and I roll my eyes.

A well timed kick to his rear end causes him to stumble but not fall as he passes me by. "Making fun of me counts, Sir Knight."

From the corner, Tom meows his approval and I nod back at him. Solidarity. My cat has my back.

Alistair whines and rubs his butt pathetically, but I'm not fooled. There's no way my puny foot came close to even putting a dent in him and I stick my nose in the air, sweeping past him with a haughty expression on my face, swishing my hair. "Let that be a lesson to you."

He grumps and plops down on my couch, his long legs sprawled in front of him. "So Jack is your lover?" he guesses, stumbling a little bit with the word _lover _as though it's awkward and redirecting our conversation back to it's original topic.

"Yes and no," I answer, leaning sideways to peel my socks from my feet. I toss them in the general direction of my bedroom but they, of course, don't even make it half the distance. "Jack and I are lovers until he decides to do something stupid and then we're not anymore. We're what you would call on again, off again, I guess. Needless to say my mother doesn't approve."

He nods, running a hand through his drying hair. I've noticed that he does that a lot. It seems that men everywhere, regardless of time or dimension or...whatever, have an unhealthy obsession with their hair. "And he would 'freak out' because he would assume that you and I are... lovers," he ventures. The blush on his cheeks every time he says that word makes me want to chuckle.

I nod. "That's about the long and short of it, yeah. He might not even freak out at all. I don't know, I've never had another man staying here before." My bare feet are cold on the chilly hardwood floor and I'm itching to take a shower but he's got more to say so I wait.

"So why don't you just tell him the truth? You and I aren't lovers."

"Really," I drawl sarcastically, putting my hands on my hips. "Honestly, in a million years I never would have had that idea." I roll my eyes. "What if he doesn't believe it?"

"He will," Alistair insists, somewhat naively. "It's the truth."

"Right," I sigh. "Well we can go with that. If he flips out, I'll just hide behind your fat ass and you can fold him up and roll him down the driveway."

He looks flabbergasted, confused, bewildered even, and I smirk to myself. I'm pulling open the bathroom door and simultaneously tugging off my shirt when I hear the couch shift so he can shout back at me.

"You evil woman, I am _not _fat."

* * *

Hot water pounds the back of my neck relaxingly and I sigh into the steam of my shower. My mind is whirling at a thousand miles an hour, making hairpin turns at break neck speeds that threaten to flip me over and lay me out. How have I found myself in this impossible, improbable, seemingly unfixable situation? How am I supposed to help Alistair when I don't even know where or how to start? What's worse, is the sinking feeling I have that I might not be able to help him at all. He could adapt, sure. He could probably even live with me for awhile but he's practically a ghost. He doesn't have a birth certificate, or ID, or anything of the things that you need to live in modern society. Not to mention, I don't know how well he would cope. How do you go from magic and killing monsters, to catching a bus and going to the store? I'm nearly sick with the thought that his very existence is hanging on _my _ability to get him home. I'm dizzy from the responsibility of it. I'm tired of thinking the same things over and over every time I'm by myself, but my self doubt is damn near crippling me.

My shower ends up being ninety percent soul searching thought and ten percent remembering to get myself clean before the water turns too chilly. Water pools on the tile around my feet when I turn off the spray and step out of the tub, and I have to tread carefully to keep from slipping. The last thing I need is to wind up bashing my brains out on my bathroom floor. A scratchy towel is scrubbed through my hair as thoroughly as possible to dry it out. I shove my arms and legs back into my pajamas with an unhappy twist of my lips. Still adjusting to Alistair's presence, I forgot to bring my day clothes into the bathroom with me.

I promise myself for the six hundredth time that I'm going to cut my hair as I pin it to my head and the cool rush of air when I open the bathroom door makes me shiver. I emerge from the bathroom clad once again in my pajamas and find Alistair is still sitting right on my couch where I left him. Tom is curled up next to him, a purring, fuzzy ball of contented cat and I know that Alistair isn't paying enough attention to realize I've left the bathroom. He's lost in thought, his brown eyes far away and distant, one large hand absently scratching Tom behind the ears. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's probably thinking about the friends he left behind and I chew my lip, not wanting to interrupt him, not wanting to intrude on his personal thoughts.

"Do you think they're worried?" he asks, not bothering to look up at me. I jump, startled at the unexpected sound of his voice, and my hand flies to cover the racing of my heart.

"I don't know." I really don't, so the least I can do is offer my honesty, as meager a gift as that is. "They're your friends, right? Do you think they miss you?"

He laughs, a quiet noise that rumbles in his chest and fills me with the urge to go sit next to him and give him a hug. He sounds a little sad. "Wynne misses me, I bet, and Leliana."

"Not Elissa?" I venture cautiously. I chew my lip, feeling guilty when his shoulders slump and he sighs. He's still staring out the window, still petting Tom and I'm still dripping water down the back of my neck and soaking the collar of my shirt.

"I don't think Elissa would miss me very much." It comes out like a confession and it tugs on my heart strings. My feet move me without my permission and I find myself sitting next to him on the couch, ours knee touching and my hands in my lap. I want him to feel better, and I don't know why other than I hate when people feel bad. Tears make me feel awkward and unsure, sorrow and despair make me feel guilty and responsible and I _am _responsible for Alistair, so that only makes it worse. "Why don't you think she would miss you? She's obviously very important to you."

Finally, _finally _he turns to look at me and gives me this half smile, this almost twist of his lips and it's so self-deprecating that it makes me scowl. "Elissa is a very brave woman to do what she does. She lost everything, everyone. Her family was murdered, her brother lost to the wilds or the Darkspawn - we never got the chance to figure out which, and then they gave her the weight of the world to carry on her shoulders as well. So she did. She carries every last bit of it and I was such an ass. I didn't want to carry it so I gave her my burden too, I was just so...after Duncan I didn't...I couldn't. I'm not a leader. I couldn't do it. But she could do it. She did do it. She's still doing it and Maker's breath she's so beautiful and sad all the time. I wanted to make her happy, I'd never really spent that much time with a woman before and I don't know, I botched it. Elissa doesn't have room in her heart, not for me, not for anyone."

I don't know what to say to that. What does someone say to that? Elissa sounds like the kind of woman that would make me feel jealous and small, beautiful and tragic with a heroic heart and the fate of the world resting in her warrior hands. Suddenly, it makes sense. "You love her." It's a question and I didn't mean it to be, but I'm surprised when he shakes his head. "No. No, I thought I did. I couldn't call it love, anyway. I was infatuated with her, and she was there for me after Duncan. I don't know what it was, but I don't think it was love."

I'm relieved to hear this, and I don't know why. My stomach comes unclenched and I feel my shoulders relax, only to tense immediately after with the mental barrage I unleash on myself. I've known Alistair for one day. One day and one night, and part of a morning. He's not staying. It doesn't matter how cute or - well, gorgeous really - or funny or anything he is. There's Jack and Elissa and he's temporary and this is ridiculous. I don't realize I've sighed until he looks at my quizzically and asks if I'm okay.

"Fine!" I reply with a forced cheery enthusiasm that I definitely don't feel. I hop up from the couch and tug on the sleeve of my shirt anxiously. "I bet Elissa misses you, if she's as great as you say. Don't sweat it, Alistair. Hey, I'm gonna go get changed and then I'll call Jack. Feel free to watch TV or explore or whatever you feel like. Just please, if you find something embarrassing of mine...I really don't need to know about it."

Before he can reply, I'm blasting off to my room and slamming the door shut behind me. Kicking my pajamas bottoms from my legs and practically ripping my shirt over my head, I swear and berate myself under my breath. This is going to end badly, already. I can tell. There is something seriously wrong with me if I've got a crush on the man sitting in my living room. With all the circumstances, everything that's happened and so many unknowns, I should be running in the opposite direction, not daydreaming. Furious with myself, I flop down on my bed and scream wordlessly into my pillow until I feel a little bit better.

Without looking up from the pillow, my arm reaches out and knocks everything off of my nightstand, groping sightlessly until my fingers brush the smooth surface of my phone and I drag it back over onto my bed. It unlocks and I slide my finger down my contact list until Jack's number and his goofy smiling face pop up. I tell myself I'm being a baby and that no one is going to freak out or overreact about anything, and wait patiently until I hear Jack pick up on the other end.

"Sarah, hey." I can hear the caution in his voice and I know it's because he didn't expect me to call. I hate the way my heart picks up speed from the way he says my name. This is why we can never stay split up, we like each other too much but we're just terrible when we're together. It's a back and forth that gets tiring, but we can't seem to stop. "Hey Jack."

There's a pause on his end and then, "why are you whispering?" I am whispering and I have no idea why. I seriously doubt that Alistair can hear me, and if he did then he heard my tantrum and he'll think I'm weird anyway. My head has not been screwed on straight for the past two days, and I think that it's going to be a long, long time before things return to normal for me, if they ever do.

"I'm not whispering, you're whispering," I argue nonsensically, propping my weight up on my elbows and cradling the phone between my ear and my shoulder. "I need a favor, if you can swing it. You don't have to, but if you do I'll leave the key for you under the mat."

I can almost hear him relax over the phone and I relax at the same time. We're moving back into familiar territory. This is something I can deal with. This is something I know and understand and will in no way be surprised by. "That wind and that storm yesterday whipped some of my lawn chairs at my fence and wrecked part of it. Can you come over later and fix it, if you're not busy? I have beeeeer in my fridge."

"Sure." He agrees right away and I breathe easier. Of course, that was the easy part. The potential battle lies not in getting him to agree to fix my fence, but in hoping that his reaction to Alistair won't be hostile.

"Thanks, cutie," I rush through my gratitude and my good-byes and end the call as quickly as I can, running my fingers through my still wet hair. I know Jack is going to take this as an invitation back into my home and my life and my bed, and I'm not sure that I want him to. For the first time since the start of our relationship I'm not certain that he's my first choice, my prime pick. It's because of Alistair, I know it and I'm an idiot and I can't help it. I'm attracted to him, I want to help him, I _like _him and I want him to like me. My teeth grind in frustration and I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room.

Alistair and Sarah, Jack and Elissa, Alistair and Elissa and Sarah and Jack. Things have gotten so complicated and I clamp down on the fact that I know I'll end up with Jack and I know that Alistair will end up with Elissa. After all, he's from a fairy tale land and fairy tales always have happy endings, don't they? It's just the way it works. I'll help Alistair go back to Thedas, and when he gets there Elissa will realize how much she cares about Alistair and they'll ride happily off into the sunset. Jack and I will get married one day. That's how it's meant to be, so why does it leave me feeling so ripped off and shorted?

I throw my phone and it cracks on the wall.

My door creaks open a second later and Alistair sticks his head in, looking concerned. "Alright, Sarah? Oh, uh, damn! Sorry! Sorry! I should have knocked!"

He's standing there in my doorway, blushing furiously and looking everywhere but me and I squeal when I remember that I'm not exactly dressed for the occasion. "Oh my God you _creeper_get out of here!" I throw my pillow at him and it hits him square in the face. He beats a quick retreat and my door clicks shut behind him. His face is not the only one that's red. I can feel myself blushing so hot that I want to crawl under my bed and never come out. Just what I needed to help soothe the ache of my wounded pride, Alistair, looking at me in my mismatched cotton bra and panties. Why me? Why?

I groan and trudge to my closet. Leggings, boots and an oversized shirt later, I emerge from my room far more dressed than the last time Alistair saw me but he's still having problems meeting my gaze.

"I didn't mean to barge in on you like that," he offers meekly, practically hiding behind Tom. "I heard a loud noise and I was just checking to see if you were okay."

Stupid Alistair and my stupid fickle heart.

What a mess.

I compartmentalize everything internally. How I feel about Jack, the stupid crush I have on Alistair, everything gets sealed away in neat little packets, labeled, and shoved into a part of my brain where I'll try not to think about them. "It's alright, don't sweat it." I'm shooting for cool and collected but the squeak in my voice is as clear as day. " I'm not sure when Jack will be here, except that it'll be later today," I begin again. "We have two options. We can stay and be here when he arrives and you can take the chance on meeting him, or we can go out and buy you some real clothes, it's your choice."

His eyes swing around to meet mine, his cheeks still a pale pink color as he rubs the back of his neck. "What's wrong with the ones I've got?"

I scoff, a hand planting itself on my hip. Bossy Mode: Activated. "Are you going to sit around my house naked when I wash those, then? Or are you just gonna sit and get smellier and smellier until finally I have no choice but to build a shed for you outside to live in until we send you back home?"

He looks put out, his lower lip pouting slightly and his eyebrows draw down into a scowl but I'm not moved. Okay, maybe I'm just a little bit moved. A fragment of moving is happening. "Fine," he consents with all the petulance of a three year old boy.

"Alright!" I clap my hands together and point to the front door. "Get your boots, my dear, we're going shopping."

He whines the whine of every male ever forced to go shopping against his will but does as I say. My coat is snatched from its place on the hook by my door and my purse is grabbed up from where I dropped it on the floor yesterday. A quick inspection of my wallet alleviates the always-paranoia I have that I've forgotten my cash and bank cards somewhere, and I slip my arms into the inviting warmth of my jacket. The usual rush to bustle out the door is paused, my hand pulling open my front door, when I catch the look of trepidation on Alistair's face.

Another tiny little piece of my heart cracks open just enough for him to worm his way inside and I smile up at him reassuringly. "Don't sweat it, just stick by me. People are people, no matter where you go or what you're doing. The biggest change for you will be scenery, right? Just think of it as...a vacation."

His chest swells outwards with a deep inhalation of stabilizing breath, and when he releases it in a sigh, it tickles the top of my head. I didn't realize I was standing so close to him. His smile, when he finally rewards me with one, is grateful but anxious. Still, Alistair is apparently nothing if not a gentleman, and he offers me his arm. I slide mine through, slamming the door on the excited jolt that thrills my stomach when his hand brushes my wrist.

As promised, I leave Jack's key under the mat and lock the door behind us. Alistair's brow is furrowed and he's trying to look everywhere at once. To his credit, he manages an expression of cool interest, as opposed to the clamoring surprise and nerves that I know are jangling inside of him. In what I hope is a calming gesture, I squeeze his arm and sweep us off on our way.

I am so screwed.


	5. The Upgrade-Brigade: Chapter 4

**You have my sincerest apologies on the considerable delay, but I have at long last returned. Thanks so much to my beta, who helped shape this chapter into something worth reading from the considerable mess it was before!**

**Sarah, Jack and Tom are mine, but Alistair is not! Enjoy.**

* * *

_I got a runnin' start and  
During my second wind_

_Stirred up all the dust  
With an iron fist and her hair brush_

_It was the prettiest picture you ever saw  
The prettiest picture not on the wall_

The fall colored leaves in the trees shake against each other in a quiet imitation of rain when the surprisingly cold wind slips through their branches. Despite only being late August, it's chilly and I snuggle gratefully into the protection of my jacket. I always forget how much colder it gets up in this part of the country, and how rapidly the seasons change. My cheeks are already a brisk pink from the scolding wind, but the cold doesn't seem to touch Alistair. I don't feel any shivers from where our arms are linked, and while his nose is just the faintest shade of red, he is almost entirely unaffected. "Aren't you cold?" I breathe questioningly, slipping my free hand into the warmth of my fur linked pocket.

He shrugs and the slight movement of his shoulders brings his arm up just so, taking mine with it and for some reason that makes me blush. I duck my head and look away, willing the red flush to vacate my cheeks immediately, or at the very least, for Alistair to contribute it to the wind and nothing more. "It's not so cold; Ferelden gets much colder than this." Dead leaves crunch under his boots and I smile. I love that sound, for some reason. Ever since I was a little kid, there has always just been something so satisfying about the crunch of fall beneath my feet. "Just wait," I chide him, my eyes bouncing to the open window of my nosiest neighbor. "It's not winter yet." She's there, staring at us from the comfort of her living room, a coffee cup in one hand and a phone cradled to her ear in the other. Sarcastically, I lift my hand and wave to her with a smile. She doesn't even have the shame to pretend she's not watching us and I redirect my attention to Alistair.

He's looking everywhere, taking stock and I can practically see him filing it all away. The wind is tousling his hair and he's doing that squinty thing again, but it's kind of adorable when he's not shooting it at me and calling me a demon. We walk in silence for the first block or two, he not asking any questions and me not volunteering any information. I don't want him to be overwhelmed, and so I keep my thoughts quietly to myself. He's doing a pretty good job of not gaping or gasping, but maybe that's because he's not actually surprised or astounded. I chuckle quietly to myself and shake my head, which reminds him of my presence and he looks down at me. "What?"

My hand pulls from my pocket and I wave his question away with a small smile. "It's nothing, I was just thinking about how well you're taking this, and then I realized it's probably actually pretty boring compared to Thedas. No monsters here, I'm afraid. Just taxes and jobs."

He smirks, quirking a blonde eyebrow at me and suddenly the wind doesn't feel quite as cold as it did only moments before. "We have taxes and jobs in Thedas, you know. We have tailors and armorsmiths, arls and arlessas. City squares full of Orlesians and Marchers selling their goods. A lot of people in Ferelden have never even seen a _monster._"

We turn the corner and I tug him hurriedly across the crosswalk despite the light telling us not to go, but I'm impatient and I can practically feel the curiosity vibrating from Alistair as I pull him along. Those eyes of his are dancing between the changing stoplight and the flashing hand warning us not to get hit by a car. There's something so terribly endearing about the sight of him trying to look at _everything_ all at once that I sneak glances over at him more than a few times."And here I thought you all flew around on dragons valiantly slaying demons and darkspawn," I tease, my feet following the familiar walkway that I know will end at my shop. His gaze returns to me and he laughs, the pleased sound of it making me duck my head again to hide behind my hair.

"Don't forget rescuing pretty damsels," he reminds me, bumping his hip into mine companionably.

"How could I? I'm willing to bet that's your favorite part."

He answers not with words, but with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows and I can only laugh in response. My arm tightens around his and he mercifully doesn't say anything about it, so I let it be for now and just enjoy it. Jack has never really been about public affection or touching, it's a struggle to even get him to hold my hand when we go out, so this is a nice change. There's something to be said about being on the arm of an attractive man and having him smile down at you - even if he is completely unaware of just how conflicted that smile makes you feel.

It's nearing noon on Saturday but the cold has driven most people to abandon their weekend shopping and stay inside where it's warm, something I'm silently grateful for when I see how empty the main street is. Where usually there are milling groups of people in front of the boutiques and shops that dot the street, only wind and leaves and chilly air stir as we pass. Less people means less gawking. Small town life can be rough, everyone knows everyone else, and everyone knows everyone's business, particularly if you're an outsider. I'm not blind to the fact that Alistair looks more than just a little out of place. All it would take is one or two of my customers seeing us together and soon enough, everyone would know that the girl who owned the flower shop was seen with just the _strangest _looking man.

He lets me lead him, guided by slight pressure and minor pulls on our joined arms, and I mentally run through the list of everything that I need, everything that _he _needs and whether or not I can stretch this trip to last all afternoon, so that there's a smaller chance of running into Jack. Boots, jeans, shirts, a jacket, socks. A sigh escapes me when I realize we might have to make a trip or two back home just to drop off our bags, if we plan on getting everything. We need groceries too, and I need to get him man things, like a razor and shampoo and all that stuff that Jack always leaves that I always throw out. Yeah, it's definitely gonna have to be more than one trip, but maybe I can just run the bags inside and leave before Jack sees me. My cheeks puff out in exasperation at the sound of my grandmother's voice in my head, reminding me once again that I really should have just let her brother teach me how to drive. A car would not only make this whole shopping thing easier, but I could use it to escape for the afternoon and put off running into Jack for at least one more day. My plaintive wish for a car reminds me sharply of how dependent I actually am on Jack. With no license, I'm always riding shotgun with him, even when we're split up. It's an ugly thought that turns my stomach and makes me flush with shame, the notion that I cannot get along precisely as I want to without the help of another person. That tiny little wedge in my heart, the one between Jack and I that I'm sure didn't exist before Alistair, shudders and widens just a hair

Alistair's voice threads in and out of my thoughts, heard but not really processed or listened to. His voice is a pleasant rumble, a comfortable sound in the background of my mind that I enjoy without really thinking about. He chatters on about this and that, complaining about the noise of the gulls that carries over from a nearby lake and boggling expressively at the cars. I'm not watching where I'm going and I, of course, stumble on absolutely nothing and nearly face plant onto the cool sidewalk. The jolt brings me back to right now, which is walking down the main street to the little clothing outlet boutique I know is hidden between the hardware store and the pawn shop. "This isn't too drastically different than Denerim," Alistair points out blithely, and I straighten my shoulders, hoping he's missed my graceful demonstration but knowing that it isn't likely. "All these shops lined up in a row," I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that he's focusing on the similarities rather than the differences.

"What's Denerim like?" I ask instead of thinking about it.

"Very loud," he answers immediately, with a fond grin. "Cold or hot, raining or dry, it's always the same. Merchants shouting their wares at you, children running around making noise - and likely picking your pockets. It's...alive. It's human. Once, Elissa and I were looking for a blacksmith to fix this massive dent in my shield and..." he trails off, his face falling and with it, my spirits. We're back to that look of gut wrenching guilt. "I hope they're okay," he says in a small voice, more to himself than to me. "I just left them there, in the Deep Roads." I can see his eyes going to that faraway place, the place that I can't reach.

"Alistair," his name comes from my lips defensively, but he doesn't hear me. "Alistair!" I'm demanding to be heard, a sharp inflection in my voice pricking him and bringing him back to me. "You told me that Elissa is brave, right?"

He nods a little absently, his shoulders slumped. "She's a great warrior, isn't she?" I persist. The words themselves feel like nonsense in my mouth, it's awkward to talk about warriors and magic. "Strong enough to carry her burdens and yours, strong enough to carry the world?"He's looking at me now like he didn't expect me to actually remember something that he'd said to me, and I can't even begin for the life of me to figure out why. "Yes?" His response is more of a question, the confused lilt in his voice giving away the fact that he's not sure where I'm going with this. To be honest, I'm not sure where I'm going with this either, but I don't let it stop me. "Leliana and...Wynne," I struggle briefly to remember the old woman's name but I get it eventually. "They're her friends, too, like you are?"

I'm back to being squinted at, but his back has straightened and the conversation is moving again. "Yes, absolutely. I don't know a single person who couldn't be Elissa's friend if they tried."

"Well, there you go." I'm sounding far more confident than I feel, but as long as it wipes that look of self-inflicted betrayal off of Alistair's face, I'm willing to wing it. "Elissa is a brave, stalwart warrior who is strong enough to carry the world on her shoulders, and she's with two people that she considers her friends. She'll be fine, Alistair. _They_ will be fine for a few days without their knight in shining armor to stand valiantly before them, a lusty maiden under each of his arms and a third clinging to his leg."

His snort is one of amusement and I grin up at him, feeling far more redeemed by this exchange than I have any right to.

"Only three lusty maidens? You wound me."

"Not nearly as much as I'll wound you if you don't walk a little faster."

The bell above the door in the boutique jingles prettily when we step inside, the sudden rush of warm air flushing my cheeks and wresting a comfortable sigh from my chest. Alistair looks impressed, and I feel myself puff up ridiculously. Thedas might have magic and dragons, but I bet it doesn't have central heating. I'm standing there, feeling like a badass for living in a world that has something in it that I in no way contributed to, when Alistair pulls me off to the side. We've not been in the store but five seconds, and I'm worried that maybe he's suddenly too anxious, that it's too soon to go through with this.

"Your obvious miscalculation about the number of lusty maidens that follow me aside, I just wanted to say thank you," he whispers earnestly, finally unclasping our arms. "You've made this a lot easier than it could have been and, I just...thanks."

My breath catches and a heat that has nothing to do with technology flares in my chest. It's gratitude he's giving me, and nothing more, but that sweet, sweet look on his face is tempting me to do something I'll regret, so I just smile and nod. I propel him forward with my hands, toward the back of the store where they keep the jeans, and try to ignore this stuttering in my chest and brain.

* * *

"I know how to wear _clothes, _Sarah," Alistair whines as I circle around him like a shark, tugging on the relaxed fabric of the dark red shirt I've picked out for him. It slides easily over his skin, sitting across his shoulders in a way that makes him look no less overwhelmingly large than his armor. He looks like he should be playing football for some fancily named University and while I have never really been attracted to jocks or athletes; it's an appealing look for Alistair. He is every inch the knight, even in regular clothes bought at a corner shop.

"No," I gasp sarcastically, smoothing the material over his shoulders and stepping back to take inventory of my finished project. Shirt? Check. Jeans? Oh lord, check. Boots? No dice, he wants to wear his own. "I thought for certain that you and everyone else in Ferelden ran around naked when you weren't buckled into your tin cans. Surely you aren't telling me that you people actually have clothes where you're from? Do the similarities never end?"

"You live to hurt me," he complains, tousling his hair with both hands, expertly messing it up juuuust so, and without even looking. I'm a little bit jealous. My own hair is wild and obnoxious, thick half waves that are constantly just begging to get chopped off.

"That's me," I quip, turning away from him to scan the store one last time, just in case I missed anything we might end up needing. "If I'm not harassing you, then well, I'm just not happy." It takes some effort in keeping my tone light and easy so as not to give away the stone that just sank six feet deep into my stomach. I'm proud when my smile doesn't falter and I make a show of passing my fingers through my bangs when I'm really just trying to hide my face. Spinning on my heel and hoping that I'm being at least a little bit inconspicuous, I discreetly shove Alistair right back into the changing room and follow him inside. There's alarm spreading rapidly across his face and he's staring down at me dubiously. I don't mean to freak him out unnecessarily, especially when it's not that much of a big deal. It's just that I've been reminded of the second downside to small town life; not only does everyone know everyone else but they're all related to each other and I'm a deer caught in headlights because there at the counter, waiting to get checked out, is Jack's cousin. I know her only vaguely, she's his cousin through marriage twice removed or something ridiculous like that but small towns have ridiculous rules. We've met once or twice, she's been into my shop and I'm just praying that she didn't see me.

"I know that I'm hard to resist but uh, if you don't mind too terribly, what exactly are you doing?" Alistair jokes. His cheeks have pinked and he's making a studious effort to stare at some point over my head instead of looking at me. The changing room is small, but I somehow manage to find room to crack the door and press my face right against it to spy on Jack's cousin.

"That's Megan out there," I hiss ridiculously, as though he'll just know who that is and what I'm talking about.

"Oh right, of course, _Megan_," he drones sarcastically. "Why didn't you just say so? That explains everything. Maker preserve us, Megan is here!"

Still peeping out through the crack in the dressing room door, I catch him lightly in the shin with my foot. "This is serious," I grumble, mentally trying to make her leave a little faster. She's just standing there, chatting with the cashier and not getting any closer to the door. "Megan is Jack's cousin."

A quick backward glance at Alistair reveals he's still utterly lost and I roll my eyes. Don't they have high schools in Thedas?

"Riiiight," he drawls out in a way that I have begun to associate with his confusion or disbelief. "So are you going to tell me what that this is all about or should I start guessing? I warn you, my skills of deduction are unmatched."

I snort and close the door again with a quiet click. She's finally leaving, but I'm not ready to leave just yet. I'm perfectly willing to wait until I know she's gotten back into her car and driven away, or at the very least, gotten far enough down Main Street that we can beat our escape.

"Megan is a gossip," I explain, leaning against the door and folding my arms across my chest. My nerves are settling back into place and I wonder for the millionth time about how jumpy I've been lately. "I bet you dollars to dimes that if she'd seen us, she'd be texting Jack and telling him that I was cruising around town with my new boyfriend and that we were all over each other, or something. Megan is definitely the queen of stretching stories until they're not even remotely true, and then telling literally everyone she can find. That's the kind of trouble we don't need right now."

Understanding dawns on his face in the form of a grin that soon melts into quiet laughter as he reaches around me and pushes the door open, herding me back outside. "Every time I think a woman is fearless," he chuckles, "it turns out they're actually afraid of other women and their gossip."

I fish my wallet out of my purse, trying to hide the small smile that springs to my lips at his indirect praise. I'm sure he's just compared some part of me to some part of Elissa, and it makes me stand a little taller that I could have something in common with someone who seems very much like she might be the perfect woman. "I wasn't afraid of her," I defend, unable to keep the smile from my voice. I hand my credit card over to the distinctly disinterested looking cashier, drumming my fingers on the counter while he runs it and hands me my copy of the slip to sign. Alistair watches with interest as I scrawl my messy signature across the bottom and slide it back, but he doesn't ask about it.

"Right, let me guess, you were simply being 'cautious and trying to avoid something unpleasant, which is completely different from being afraid', am I right?" The way his brows arch and that damn smug smirk is hanging on his lips gives me the impression that he's had a conversation like this before and instead of giving him the satisfaction of being right, I scoop up a few of our bags and bolt from the store. I've left Alistair inside, but he doesn't linger at all and rejoins me where I stand waiting on the sidewalk. He looks vaguely freaked out, and I immediately feel sorry for leaving him alone, even if it was only for a second.

The wind has picked up since last we were outside and the clouds have grown considerably darker with the threat of more rain, which means our shopping day has just ended. I grumble half curses at the sky and my bad luck with eyes closed. When I open them again, there is a very perplexed Alistair very close to my face. I tilt backwards with a surprised squeak, having expected sky to greet my vision. I would have fallen over, landing on my butt as I do far too often anyways as I had already demonstrated earlier in the day, had it not been for the ninja like reflexes of my chivalrous companion**.**

"Something wrong?"

I feel my brows threatening to draw together in exasperation. I am a grown woman, I own my own business, I own my own home, I am responsible enough to take care of a cat! Sure, I don't have a car and I'm too chicken to actually get my license, confrontation freaks me out and my socks never match, but I should not be so easily struck speechless just by his proximity. This does not happen to me, I'm pretty sure it doesn't actually happen to anyone.

"It's going to rain," I answer, taking a few nonchalant steps back and putting some distance between us. How stupid I feel, that I can't even think properly when he's near me.

He peers up at the sky, much like I did, a furrow in his brow and his lips pursed. "It's going to rain and that's bad because…" He trails off obviously, waiting for me to finish the thought and give him some insight into why the weather has me so out of sorts.

"It's inconvenient," I offer in explanation. "It means that not only do we need to try and beat the rain so that we don't ruin everything we just bought, but it means I'm going to have to explain you to Jack a lot sooner than I wanted to."

"You make it sound so dirty," he scolded, better adjusting his hold on his bags so that he could reprimand me properly. "If you stopped assuming that everyone will think something scandalous is going on, you'd be a lot more relaxed. Besides, that rain is at least an hour off, maybe two." The way he says it makes it sound so obvious, like _clearly _I should have been able to tell that just by how far off the clouds still are. What do I look like, some kind of meteorological genius? Still, he's obviously trying to make me feel better, and it's working. Something tells me it would take a stronger woman than I to stay grumpy in his presence for long.

"Well, if we're going to beat the rain, we'd better hurry," I chime cheerily, sweeping past him at a brisk pace. I pause a few feet down the sidewalk to allow him to catch up and feel the beginnings of mischief stirring in me. "Besides, you could use the exercise, you're a little pudgy."

"Pudgy!" he protests vainly, adopting an air of hurt pride. "I certainly am not pudgy. I'm fit and dashing, a brave and romantic knight that's all muscles and giant arms. Ladies swoon over me, Sarah. They just fall right down where they stand when I walk by, calling after me. _Wait Alistair, we love you Alistair, you're the farthest thing from pudgy we've ever seen Alistair_."

This man is ridiculous.

Catching up, he comes to a halt beside me and pats his stomach. "That was a totally true story I just told you there." Of course my eyes are drawn to the area in question. I feel my teeth clench together and I purse my lips disapprovingly at my own reaction. My mood is flipping back and forth so stupidly fast I should probably be concerned. He is certainly not pudgy, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was easy to ignore just how attractive he is when he was stuffed into heavy armor, or slouching around my apartment in those weird cotton and linen things he wore underneath. My mind is off a mile a minute and he's just standing there patting his stomach like it's his oldest friend. Shifting my bags to one arm, I whack him on the shoulder and start us moving again. He whines, more wounded puppy than heroic knight who's staved off unthinkable monsters, and I can't help the laugh that ripples through me like water. This might be a disaster, how easy he makes me laugh, how magnetic his smile is, but at least it's a disaster that I can enjoy.

The rest of our shopping goes by faster than the clothes did, mostly because he doesn't have to try anything on. I just pile bag after bag into his arms and he carries them without complaint. From what he's told me of Leliana, and her love of shoes and shopping, this is probably something he's done before.

We make it home just before the rain but our good time means absolutely nothing to me when I see that Jack's truck is parked in my driveway, all half-assed and sloppy, taking up the whole thing like he owns it. It's a little thing, something that never irritated me before but now it does. What if I wanted to have company? What if I was out with someone who had a car? The lack of consideration heats the inside of my stomach and makes me cranky. Alistair picks up on it right away and takes my bags away from me. "Jack, right?" he ventures.

I nod and my legs move woodenly up the walk to my front door, not a single glance spared toward my lawn gnomes today. "Right again, Sir Lance-a-lot."


End file.
